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diff --git a/40598-0.txt b/40598-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2aceb73 --- /dev/null +++ b/40598-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3591 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40598 *** + + Children of Christmas + + _AND OTHERS_ + + BY + + EDITH M. THOMAS + + _Author of "The Dancers and Other Legends and Lyrics" + "Cassia and Other Verse"_ + + BOSTON + RICHARD G. BADGER + The Gorham Press + 1907 + + + _Copyright, 1907, by Edith M. Thomas_ + + _All Rights Reserved_ + + _The Gorham Press, Boston_ + + + + +I + +_CHILDREN OF CHRISTMAS_ + + + + +_CONTENTS_ + + +I + +_CHILDREN OF CHRISTMAS_ + + _Cradle Song_ + _How Many_ + _Her Christmas Present_ + _A Christmas Spy_ + _Refreshments for Santa Claus_ + _How the Christmas Tree was brought to Nome_ + _Holly and Mistletoe_ + _The Firebrand_ + _The Foundling_ + _Meeting the Kings_ + _The Procession of the Kings_ + _Melchior's Ride_ + _One of the Twelve_ + _The Witch's Child_ + _Babushka_ + _A Christmas Offering_ + _Christmas Post_ + _The Christmas Sheaf_ + _The Birds on the Christmas Sheaf_ + _What the Pine Trees Said_ + _Two Child Angels_ + _The Old Doll_ + + +II + +_OTHER CHILDREN_ + + _The Apple-blossom Switch_ + _The Indignant Baby_ + _A Question of Spelling_ + "_Yours Severely_" + _A Lack of Attention_ + "_I Ought to Mustn't_" + _A Vain Regret_ + _In the Dark Little Flat_ + _The Little Girl from Town_ + _For Every Day_ + _The Day-Dreamer_ + _Born Deaf, Dumb, and Blind_ + _The Cradle-Child_ + _Some Ladies of the Olden Time_ + _A Water-Lily_ + _The Kinderbank_ + _Buonamico_ + _The Prince and the Whipping-Boy_ + _Master Corvus_ + "_P. Abbott_" + _The Giant's Daughter_ + _Erotion and the Dove_ + _The Homesick Soldier_ + _The Cossack Mother_ + _The Blossom-Child_ + _The Clock of the Year_ + + +III + +_SOME OF THEIR FRIENDS_ + + _The Young of Spring_ + _The Triumph of the Brown Thrush_ + _Day--Wide Day!_ + _The Blossoms of To-morrow_ + _The Nest in the Heather_ + _Lady Grove (Silver Birches)_ + _Shadow Brook_ + _The Brook and the Bird_ + _The Birds of Soleure_ + _The Prairie Nest_ + _The Moving of the Nest_ + _The Widowed Eagle_ + _The Chicadee_ + _The Earth-Mother and her Children_ + "_When the Leaves are Gone_" + _The First Thanksgiving_ + "_Mascots_" + _Mother Fur_ + _What the Cat-Mother Said_ + _What the Bird-Mother Said_ + _What the Friends of Both Said_ + _The Little Brown Bat_ + _The Lost Charter_ + _The Saving of Jack_ + _Skye of Skye_ + _Tip's Kitten_ + _The King of Cats_ + _Waifs_ + _Frost-Flowers of the Pavement_ + _Stars of the Snow_ + _June in the Sky_ + _Mother Earth_ + _The Rain Rains Every Day_ + _The Good By_ + + + + +CRADLE SONG + +_For one Born at Christmas_ + + + Happy thou, a winter comer, + Happier with the snows around thee + Than if rosy-fingered summer + In thy cradle-nest had crowned thee. + + Tender is the night, and holy: + Little clouds, like cherub faces, + Up the moon path, drifting slowly, + Vanish in the heavenly spaces. + + Clothed in splendor, past our earth night, + Sphere on sphere is chanting _Nowel_: + Child, thy birthnight keeps a Birthnight + Dearest in all Time's bestowal! + + He who slept within a manger + Guards the pillow thou art pressing-- + Sent thee hither, little stranger, + Blest--to be our Christmas Blessing! + + + + +HOW MANY + + + Resting her curly head on my knee, + And slipping her small hand into mine, + My baby girl asks how many there'll be + On Christmas day when we dine. + + Though I've told her before, and she knows very well, + "There'll be grandpa and grandma," I repeat, + And Uncle Charlie and Aunt Estelle + And Cousin Marguerite. + + And Uncle Philip and Cousin Kate, + And mamma's old friend, Miss Madeline; + And--let me see--ah, yes, that is eight, + And Mr. Brownell makes nine! + + As I close my story I hear a sigh, + The curly head closer nestles, and then, + In a sad little voice, "How many are I?" + "My darling! At least you are ten!" + + + + +HER CHRISTMAS PRESENT + +_A True Incident_ + + + With doll in arms to court she came,-- + A mite of tender years + Between her sobs she put the case, + Her eyes brimmed up with tears. + + "They've put my mamma into jail-- + And oh, I love her so! + She's very good--my mamma is-- + Please, won't you let her go?" + + "Just look! She made this doll for me" + (She held it up to view). + The judge did look. "Don't cry," he said, + "We'll see what we can do." + + "What charge against the prisoner, clerk?" + "Sold apples in the street. + She had no license, and, when fined, + The fine she could not meet." + + "My mamma's good. Please, let her go." + The judge looked down and smiled; + "So well you've pleaded, she shall be + Your Christmas Present, child." + + "Now take this paper, little one, + It sets your mother free. + She should be very proud of you; + Go, tell her so, from me." + + With doll in arms away she went, + And soon the prison gained; + And when her mother clasped her close, + The happy child explained: + + "A kind, good man like Santa Claus, + With hair as white as snow, + He let you out because--because + I asked him too, you know!" + + + + +A CHRISTMAS SPY + + + When Poebe brought the wood and coal; + To lay the fire, what did she see + But Baby--dropped upon one knee + And peering up the chimney-hole! + + She never turned her little head, + With all its curly, yellow hair: + I asked, "What are you doing there?" + "Me look for Santa Taus!" she said. + + + + +REFRESHMENTS FOR SANTA CLAUS + + + "It may be late and stormy and cold + When Santa Claus reaches our street; + And Santa, you know, is very old, + So I'll leave him something to eat." + + "And what do you think he would like, dear heart," + "Something nice and sweet," she said; + "Jelly and jam, and a cranberry tart, + And a _teenty_ piece of bread!" + + So there on the sideboard is Santa's feast, + Which her own small hands have spread; + Jelly and jam,--three kinds at least, + And a tart--but _where is the bread_?" + + + + +HOW THE CHRISTMAS TREE WAS BROUGHT TO NOME + + + Night of the winter--winter and night in the city of Nome, + There where the many are dwelling, but no man yet has a home! + Desolate league upon league, ice-pack and tundra and hill; + And the dark of the year when the gold-hunter's rocker and dredge + are still! + + By the fire that is no man's hearth,--by the fire more precious than + gold,-- + They are passing the time as they may, encompassed by storm and by + cold: + And their talk is of pay-streak and bedrock, of claim by seashore or + creek, + Of the brigantine fast in the ice-pack this many and many a week; + Wraiths of the mist and the snow encumber her canvas and deck,-- + And the Eskimos swear that a crew out of ghostland are crowding the + wreck! + + Thus, in the indolent dark of the year, in the city of Nome, + They were passing the time as they might, but ever their thoughts + turned home. + Said the Man from the East, "In God's country now (where we'd all + like to be), + You may bet your life there's a big boom on for the Christmas Tree; + And we'd have one here, but there isn't a shrub as high as my hand, + Nor the smell of spruce, for a hundred miles, in all this land!" + + Then the Man from the South arose: "I allow, if the Tree could be + found, + I'd 'tend to the fruit myself, and stand ye a treat all round!" + "Done!" said the Man from the West (the youngest of all was he). + "I'll lose my claim in the ruby sand--or I'll find the Tree!" + + The restless Aurora is waving her banners wide through the dome, + And the Man from the West is off, while yet they are sleeping in + Nome! + Off, ere the low-browed dawn, with Eskimo, sledge, and team: + He is leaving the tundra behind, he is climbing the source of the + stream! + On, beyond Sinrock--on, while the miles and the dim hours glide-- + On, toward the evergreen belt that darkens the mountain side! + 'Tis a hundred miles or more; but his team is strong, is swift, + And brief are his slumbers at night, in the lee of the feathery + drift! + + * * * * * + + There were watchful eyes, there were anxious hearts in the city of + Nome; + And they cheered with a will when the Man from the West with his + prize came home! + And they cheered again for the Christmas Tree that was brought from + far, + Chained to his sledge, like a king of old to the conqueror's car! + + Said the Man from the South, "I'll 'tend to the fruit that grows on + the Tree!" + Said the Man from the East, "Leave the Christmas dinner and + trimmings to me!" + + + + +HOLLY AND MISTLETOE + + + Said the Holly to the Mistletoe: + "Of this holy-tide what canst know,-- + Thou a pagan--thou + Of the leafless bough? + My leaves are green, my scarlet berries shine + At thought of things divine!" + + To the Holly spake the Mistletoe: + "Matters not, my leafless boughs but show + Berries pale as pearl-- + Ask yon boy and girl! + If human mirth and love be not some sign + Of share in things divine!" + + + + +THE FIREBRAND (_Northern Ohio, Christmas Eve, 1804_) + + + Hark to a story of Christmas Eve + In the lonely days of yore: + 'Tis of the measureless, savage woods + By the great lake's windy shore-- + Of mother and child, in a firelit span, + Where the wilderness bows to the toil of man! + + "Christmas is coming, and father'll be here; + Through the woods he is coming, I know! + Over his shoulder his ax is laid, + And his beard is white with snow! + Yes, but look in the fire, my child, + At the strange cities there, so bright and so wild!" + + "Mother, what are those restless flames + That close by the window pass?" + "Only the firelight fairies, child, + That dance on the window-glass! + But look, how the sparks up the chimney fly, + Up, and away, to the snowy sky!" + + "Oh, listen, what are those shuddering cries,-- + Mother, what can they be?" + "Only the branches that grate on the roof, + When the wind bends down the tree! + Now sing me the song I've taught to you, + That I, myself, as a little child knew!" + + "But, mother, those flames dart back and forth-- + Like balls of fire they play! + And those shuddering cries are at the door; + '_You must let us in_,' they say!"-- + "My child! Your father's whistle I hear-- + Say a prayer for him--he is coming near!" + + She has seized the tongs, she has snatched a brand, + And waved it abroad at the door! + Through the drifting snow a form she sees-- + He is safe, in a moment more; + Safe--and afar are those shuddering cries, + And the baleful lights of the _wolves' red eyes_! + + Thus did it chance on a Christmas Eve, + In the days that are long since fled; + But a light so brave, and a gleam so true, + Through the waste of the years is shed, + As I think of that blazing, windblown brand, + Waved at the door by a slim, white hand! + + + + +THE FOUNDLING + + +I + + The good man sat before the fire, + And oftentimes he sighed; + The good wife softly wept the while + Her evening work she plied: + One year ago this happy time + The little Marie died! + + +II + + "And surely, now, if she had lived, + She would have reached my knee!" + "And surely, now, if she had lived, + How cunning would she be!" + In fancy each a darling face + Beside their hearth could see. + + +III + + The door swung wide--a gust of wind + The fitful candle blew; + 'Twas Franz, the awkward stable-boy, + His clattering step they knew. + "But Franz, speak up, speak up, and tell + What thing has chanced to you!" + + +IV + + His round blue eyes with wonder shone, + His bashful fears had fled: + "I saw--I saw the cattle kneel + Upon their strawy bed; + And in a manger lay the Child-- + A light shone round His head!" + + +V + + "He must have dreamed," the good man said, + "A vision, it would seem." + "Nay, master, for the light shone bright + On stall and loft and beam." + Then said the good wife, "I, perhaps, + Might go and dream this dream!" + + +VI + + No further words, but forth she fared, + With Franz to lead the way. + They reached the barn, whose sagging door + Shot out a yellow ray; + The kine did kneel upon the straw, + As truthful Franz did say! + + +VII + + And there--oh, lovely, lovely sight, + Oh, pleading, tender sight! + Within a manger, lapped in hay, + A smiling, rosy mite + The good wife saw, and nearer held + The lantern's yellow light. + + +VIII + + She took the foundling in her arms, + And on its sleeping face + Her tears and kisses fell in one: + "How great is Heaven's grace! + It is the Christ-Child's gift to me, + To ease the aching place!" + + + + +MEETING THE KINGS + +(_Suggested by "A Provençal Christmas Postscript," + Thomas A. Janvier_) + + + Long, long ago, in dear Provence, we three! + Three children, ruddy with the _midi_ sun + (And blither none the all-seeing sun might see), + How happy when the harvest-time was done, + The last slow drop from out the winepress run; + And when the frost at morn was thick like snow; + And when Clotilde at evening sang and spun, + And old folk, by the new fire's ruddy glow, + Would tell, as I do now, the tales of long ago! + + Those tales--ah, most of all, we begged to hear + The tales our grandsires from their grandsires had-- + How, in the darkening undertime of year, + When with first-fallen snow the fields were clad, + That blessèd time when nothing can be sad + (Such peace through Christ's dear might encircles all), + How, then, the sleeping hives made murmur glad-- + The white ox knelt within his littered stall, + And voices strange and sweet were heard through heaven to call! + + We were three children--René, Pierre, Annette. + The little sister listened, wonder-eyed; + Each held her hand (that touch, I feel it yet!), + And all three drank those tales of Christmas tide. + The leaden-footed time how shall we bide? + How many days and hours we know full well, + Almost the little minutes that divide! + Meanwhile, like music of a hidden bell, + Our beating hearts keep up the chime, _Noël_, _Noël_! + + One thing there was, desired above all things: + "Say, will they come (as ever from of old)-- + The wise, the good, the three great Eastern Kings, + Who brought rich gifts,--frankincense, myrrh, and gold?" + How often of their names had we been told-- + Balthasar, Melchior, Gaspard,--splendid all, + Wide-turbaned, sandal-shod, and purple-stoled, + Perhaps upon white steeds, curbed-in, and tall, + Or else on camels with the velvet-soft footfall! + + "Will they at vespers be, on Holy Night? + And will they stop and see the little shrine + Where Jesus lies beneath the Star's true light, + As when, at first, they found him by that sign?" + "Hush, René, hush! and if the eve be fine, + Thou--yes, all three--shall go to meet the Kings. + But children--mark ye well these words of mine! + Each way, of four, to town the traveler brings; + So it may chance ye miss them in your wanderings." + + Such sage replies our questions would receive. + The Holy Time drew near, and yet more near; + At last, it was the morning of the Eve, + All day we swayed from lovely hope to fear. + "'Too early?' Nay, 'tis twilight, mother dear-- + At least, so very soon the sun will set!" + "Your warmest coats--the air is sharp and clear. + And in your hurry, children, don't forget + That baby feet tire soon--remember p'tite Annette!" + + "No, no! I do not tire, though fast I run!" + Ah, how we laughed to see the red lips pout-- + The small sweet pride that would not be outdone + In such a race, by brothers big and stout! + "Annette the first shall see the Kings, no doubt"-- + It was our grandsire spake with twinkling eye. + "Yes, yes; she shall," impatient to be out, + We answered. Once beneath the deepening sky, + We ever took the sunset way--as late birds thither fly! + + For thus we reasoned with one grave consent: + If yonder star above our mountain's crest + Should be that Eastern star for guidance lent, + Then must the Kings be journeying from the West. + So on we ran, past harvest fields at rest, + Past sheepfolds where the flock of summer dreamed + (Full soon they would be kneeling, as we guessed!) + And on, and on--and now, at times, it seemed + Far down the twilight road rich banners waved and gleamed. + + But ever of enchanted weft they proved, + On sunset's pageant field emblazoned low; + And caravans, still moving as we moved, + At length, for straggling olive trees would show. + Then, while less confident our pace would grow, + Wiser than I--a twelvemonth and a day, + Would René counsel: Might it not be so-- + As we had heard our own dear mother say-- + _The roads are four_--the Kings had come another way? + + No time to lose. We took the homeward track, + The Kings at vespers might be lingering still. + Soon were we in the church. Alack, alack! + The Kings had passed; for though they bore good will + To our good parish, yet must they fulfil + The prayers of all; and there were other folk + Who, if unvisited, would take it ill. + "'Tis said they must reach Arle by midnight stroke; + Sweet spices they have left--judge by the censer's smoke!" + + We boys took manfully this frown of Fate; + But tears stood in petite Annette's blue eyes. + "Another year, my precious,--thou canst wait; + Besides, to-morrow morn a fine surprise + There'll be for children who are sage and wise. + Gifts--but I may not tell you now, my child."-- + 'Twas mother-love that did such cure devise + For bud-nipped hopes and hearts unreconciled; + We slept, and dreamed, on this--and then, the morning smiled! + + Time passed. We never saw the Kings. Ah, well-- + At least the two of us saw not, I know. + But how shall I the wonder of it tell? + There came a winter wild and dim with snow. + It seemed to us that sheeted ghosts did go + Upon the wind, that never ceased to moan. + And one of us with fever was laid low: + Like leaves the little hands were tossed and thrown, + And on her cheek the rose of fever was o'erblown! + + The storm was done. The day threw off its shroud-- + ('Twas Christmas Eve--till then by all forgot), + And suddenly, across a scarp of cloud + One crimson flame, a parting sunbeam shot. + It reached Annette upon the low, white cot, + It touched our mother's face, Madonna-mild. + With dreaming eyes that saw us, yet saw not, + Petite Annette threw out her hand and smiled: + "Pierre! The Kings have come, and with them is a Child!" + + Long, long ago in dear Provence was grief. + In vain the troubadour may sing Noël! + In vain the birds give thanks for Christmas sheaf, + In vain I heard, "God loved Annette so well + That He hath taken her to heaven to dwell." + No comfort till René would whisper me: + "O brother, think upon it--who can tell?-- + Perhaps there was no other way, to _see_! + And, Pierre, remember how she told the news to thee!" + + + + +THE PROCESSION OF THE KINGS + + + The little town is muffled all in snow; + Yet there _Weihnachten_[1] love is burning clear. + And on each door three letters[2] in a row + Proclaim the Three Kings' Day is drawing near. + + Oh, then will Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar + Ride through the country on their horses white! + And all the people, live they far or near, + Will early rise and follow with delight. + + And never will the great procession stop + Till they Christkindlein and his mother greet: + Then on their knees the turbaned kings will drop, + And fill her lap with gifts, and kiss his feet; + + For they will find her, sitting still and meek + Upon a bench beside some stable-shed, + Her soft hair brushing dear Christkindlein's cheek, + And sunshine brightness all around each head! + + Then, while the old folk smile through happy tears, + Blame not the children if a shout they raise + When little _Esel_,[3] with his pointed ears, + Leans o'er the fence with puzzled, wistful gaze. + + There, too, the gentle, great black ox will stand: + Folk say he knelt at night in strawy stall; + Perchance he knows these kings from Eastern land, + For now he lifts his head with lowing call! + + [1] _Weihnachten_--Christmas + + [2] In many parts of Southern Germany it is a custom to place on + the outer door the initials of the three kings--C. M. B. + + [3] _Esel_--German for "donkey," + + + + +MELCHIOR'S RIDE + + + Melchior rides from door to door, + Large Christmas doles he seeks; + A pannier wide receives the store, + Yet never a word he speaks! + + The _nougat_ bells so merrily ring + Yet never a note he hears; + He gathers the gifts the good folk bring, + And onward still he steers. + + The children laugh, and the children chaff, + He sits so stiff and straight, + And grandpère waves, with his thorn-tree staff, + A greeting at the gate! + + Olives and almonds, and cheese and bread, + And the pack on his back grows stout! + Let the hungry poor to their fill be fed, + While the _nougat_ bells ring out. + + Thus, Melchior rides from door to door, + Seeking of all his fee; + And their presents into his pannier pour, + Yet never a whit cares he! + + For a wicker-work man is Melchior droll, + A wicker-work man, and no more; + But the people love him, with heart and soul, + As he rides from door to door! + + + + +ONE OF THE TWELVE + +A CHRISTMAS CAROL + +_From the Provençal of Roumanille_ + + + "Great stir among the shepherd folk; + To Bethlehem they go, + To worship there a God whose head + On straw is laid full low; + Upon the lovely newborn Child + Their gifts will they bestow. + + "But I, who am as poor as Job-- + A widowed mother I, + Who for my little son's sweet sake + For alms to all apply-- + Ah, what have I that I can take + The Child of Love most high? + + "Thy cradle and thy pillow, too, + My little lamb forlorn, + Thou sorely needest them--no, no, + I cannot leave thee shorn! + I cannot take them to the God + That in the straw was born." + + Oh, miracle! The nursing babe-- + The babe e'en as he fed-- + Smiled in his tender mother's face, + And, "Go, go quick!" he said; + "To Jesus, to my Saviour, take + My kisses and my bed." + + The mother, all thrilled through and through, + To heaven her hands did raise; + She gave the babe her breast, then took + The cradle--went her ways,... + And now, at Bethlehem arrived, + To Mary Mother says: + + "O Mary, Pearl of Paradise, + That heaven on earth hath shed, + O Virgin Mother, hear the word + My little babe hath said: + To Jesus, to my Saviour, take + My kisses and my bed. + + "Here, Mary, here the cradle is; + Thy need is more than mine; + Receive, and in it lay thy Son, + Messiah all-divine! + And let me kiss, upon my knees, + That darling Babe of thine!" + + The blessed Virgin, then, at once, + Right glad of heart, bent low, + And in the cradle laid her Child, + And kissed him, doing so. + Then with his foot St. Joseph rocked + The cradle to and fro. + + "Now, thanks to thee, good woman, thanks, + For this that thou hast done." + Thus say they both, with friendly looks. + "Of thanks I merit none; + Yet, holy Mother, pity me, + For sake of thy dear Son." + + Since then a happy soul was hers; + God's blessing on her fell; + One of the Twelve her child became, + That with our Lord did dwell. + Thus was this story told to me, + Which I afar would tell. + + + + +THE WITCH'S CHILD + + + 'Tis Elfinell--a witch's child, + From holy minster banned.... + Again the old glad bells ring out + Through all the Christmas land. + + No gift might she receive or give, + Nor kneel to Mary's child: + She watched from far the joyous troop + That past the Crib defiled; + + Far in the shadow of the porch, + Yet even there espied: + "Now, hence away, unhallowed Elf!" + The sacristan did chide. + + "Hence, till some witness thou canst bring + Of gift received from thee, + In His dear name, whose birth we sing, + But this shall never be!" + + Poor Elfinell--she turned away: + "Though none for me may speak, + Yet there be those may take my gift; + And them I go to seek!" + + So, flitting light through lonesome fields + By summer long forgot, + She crossed the valley drifted deep-- + The brook in icy grot; + + And gained, at last, a still, white wood + All hung with flowers of snow: + There, down she sat, and quaintly called + In tender tones and low. + + They heard and came--the doe and fawn, + The squirrel and the hare, + And dwellers shy in earthy homes, + And wanderers of the air! + + To these she gave fresh leaves of kale. + To those the soft white bread, + Or filberts smooth, or yellow corn; + So each and all she fed. + + She fed them from her hand--she sighed; + "Might you but speak for me, + And say, ye took my Christmas gift, + Then, I the Crib might see!" + + At this, those glad, wild creatures join, + And close the child around; + They draw her on, she scarce knows how, + Across the snowy ground! + + They crowd with soft, warm, furry touch; + They stoop with frolic wing: + Grown strangely bold, to haunts of men + The elfin child they bring! + + They reach the town, the minster door; + The door they straightway pass; + And up the aisle and by the priest + That saith the holy mass. + + Nor stay, until they reach the Crib + With all its wreathen greens; + And there above, with eyes of love, + The witch-child looks and leans! + + Spake, then, the priest to all his flock: + "Forbid no more this child! + To speak for her, God sendeth these, + His loved ones of the wild! + + "'Twas God that made them take her gift, + Our stubborn hearts to shame! + Melt, hearts of ours; and open, hands, + And give in Christ's dear name." + + Thus, Elfinell with gifts was showered, + Upon a Christmas Day; + The while, beside the altar's font, + The ban was washed away. + + A carven stall the minster shows, + Whereon ye see the priest priest-- + The kneeling child--and clustering forms + Of friendly bird and beast. + + + + +BABUSHKA + +(_A Russian Legend_) + + + Babushka sits before the fire + Upon a winter's night; + The driving winds heap up the snow, + Her hut is snug and tight; + The howling winds,--they only make + Babushka's more bright! + + She hears a knocking at the door: + So late--who can it be? + She hastes to lift the wooden latch, + No thought of fear has she; + The wind-blown candle in her hand + Shines out on strangers three. + + Their beards are white with age, and snow + That in the darkness flies; + Their floating locks are long and white, + But kindly are their eyes + That sparkle underneath their brows, + Like stars in frosty skies. + + "Babushka, we have come from far, + We tarry but to say, + A little Prince is born this night, + Who all the world shall sway. + Come, join the search; come, go with us, + Who go our gifts to pay." + + Babushka shivers at the door: + "I would I might behold + The little Prince who shall be King, + But ah! the night is cold, + The wind so fierce, the snow so deep, + And I, good sirs, am old." + + The strangers three, no word they speak, + But fade in snowy space! + Babushka sits before her fire, + And dreams, with wistful face: + "I would that I had questioned them, + So I the way might trace! + + "When morning comes with blessèd light, + I'll early be awake; + My staff in hand I'll go,--perchance, + Those strangers I'll o'ertake; + And, for the Child some little toys + I'll carry, for His sake." + + The morning came, and, staff in hand, + She wandered in the snow. + She asked the way of all she met, + But none the way could show. + "It must be farther yet," she sighed; + "Then farther will I go." + + And still, 'tis said, on Christmas Eve, + When high the drifts are piled, + With staff, with basket on her arm, + Babushka seeks the Child: + At every door her face is seen,-- + Her wistful face and mild! + + Her gifts at every door she leaves; + She bends, and murmurs low, + Above each little face half-hid + By pillows white as snow: + "And is He here?" Then, softly sighs, + "Nay, farther must I go!" + + + + +A CHRISTMAS OFFERING + +(_Florence, Italy_) + + + I shall never forget Cimabue's Madonna, + No, nor the niche close by in the wall, + Where, on the straw, the Bambino was lying, + While the oxen knelt in the stall. + + Rude are the images, tinsel the flowers; + But a tear to the eye unconsciously starts, + Beholding the tribute the children have rendered, + In the votive gift of "hearts"! + + Among them a little gold watch was hanging, + That told of some sick child's treasured wealth, + Sent with a prayer that his Christmas present + Might be the good gift of health! + + + + +CHRISTMAS POST + + + In Sulz-am-Neckar, when night shuts down, + And the Christmas Eve has come, + All through the little snow-white town + There's a joyous stir and hum. + + Now here and now there, along the street, + From windows wide open flung, + Float childish laughter and prattle sweet + In the kindly German tongue. + + For the happy moment at last is here, + When each child a letter sends, + Directed to _Christkindlein_ dear-- + The Children's Friend of Friends! + + Then, out at the window--strung on a thread, + The precious letter is cast; + Though far and high on the night wind sped, + 'Twill be found and read at last! + + In Sulz-am-Neckar, prompt as the day, + The children awake to find + Among the Christmas branches gay + _Christkindlein's_ answer kind! + + + + +THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF + +(_Provençal_) + + + It was a gleaner in the fields,-- + The fields gleaned long ago: + The evening wind swept down from heights + Already brushed with snow. + + The gleaner turned to right, to left, + With searching steps forlorn; + The stubble-blade beneath her feet + Was sharp as any thorn. + + But as she stooped, and as she searched, + Half blind with gathering tears, + Beside her in the field stood One + Whose voice beguiled her fears: + + "What seek ye here, this bitter eve, + The harvest long gone by?" + She lifted up her weary face, + She answered with a sigh: + + "I seek but some few heads of wheat + To nail against the wall, + To feed at morn the blessed birds, + When with loud chirps they call. + + "Poor ever have I been, God knows! + Yet ne'er so poor before, + But they might taste their glad Noël + Beside my cottage door." + + Then answer made that Presence sweet, + "Go home, and trust right well + The birds beside your cottage door + Shall find their glad Noël." + + And so it was--from soundest sleep + The gleaner woke at morn, + To see, nailed up beside her door, + A sheaf of golden corn! + + And thereupon the birds did feast,-- + The birds from far and wide: + All know it was Our Lord Himself + That goodly sheaf supplied! + + + + +THE BIRDS ON THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF + + + "And wherefore," the finch to the starling said, + On the Christmas sheaf, as they hungrily fed, + "Wherefore do now the children of men + Open their hands, when, again and again, + They drove us away from their plenteous store, + From the corn in the field, from the threshing-floor?" + "That," said the starling, "I'll try to explain: + They are feasting, themselves, and they spare us this grain; + For oft, as they feast and make merry, they sing, + 'Peace upon earth and good will'----" + "But this thing" + (Said the finch), "we birds have been singing all year, + Then, why not before have they shared their good cheer?" + + + + +WHAT THE PINE TREES SAID + + + I heard the swaying pine trees speak, + As I went down the glen: + "Next year," said one, "the wind shall seek, + But find me not again!" + + "I shall go forth upon the seas, + A mast, or steering-beam; + On me shall breathe the tropic breeze, + Above, strange stars shall gleam.' + + "And I--the ax shall cleave my grain, + And many times divide; + From my dear brood I'll shed the rain, + And roof their ingleside." + + Then up and spake a slender shaft, + That like an arrow grew; + "No breeze my leafless stem shall waft, + No ax my trunk shall hew-- + + But though a single hour is mine, + How happy shall I be! + Young hearts shall leap, young eyes shall shine + To greet their Christmas tree!" + + + + +TWO CHILD ANGELS + + + Two Child Angels on Christmas Night, + They stood on the brow of Heaven's hill; + The stars beneath them were glancing bright, + And the air was clear and still. + + "That is the Earth that dazzles so-- + That shines with a glad and a radiant light-- + That is the Earth where, long ago, + I was born on the Christmas Night!" + + Thus said the one, and the other replied, + "Forever dear is the Earth in my sight; + For there, full long ago, I died, + On the holy Christmas Night!" + + + + +THE OLD DOLL + +(_Just after Christmas_) + + + Little one, little one, open your arms, + Now are your wishes come true, come true! + Here is a love with a thousand charms, + And see! she is reaching her hands out to you! + Put the old doll by, asleep let her lie, + And open your arms to welcome the new. + + Little one, little one, play your sweet part, + Mother-love lavishes treasure untold. + Whisper fond words, and close to your heart, + Your warm little heart, the new idol enfold. + ('Tis so with us all,--to worship we fall + Before the new shrine, forgetting the old!) + + * * * * * + + Little one, little one, wherefore that sigh? + Weary of playing the long day through? + But there's something that looks like a tear in your eye, + And your lips--why, your lips are quivering, too! + Do I guess aright?--it is coming night, + And you cry for the old--you are tired of the new? + + Little one, little one, old loves are best; + And the heart still clings though the hands loose their hold! + Take the old doll back, in your arms she shall rest, + When you wander away to the dreamland fold. + (With all, even so,--ere to sleep we go, + The wavering heart wavers back to the old!) + + + + +II + +_OTHER CHILDREN_ + + + + +THE APPLE-BLOSSOM SWITCH + + + It was the daughter of a fairy witch,-- + A sweet, though wayward child. + "Go, naughty Elfinella, bring a switch + From yonder fruit tree wild!" + + (It was the charming time of all the year,-- + The darling month of May + And every bush and thicket, far and near, + With leaves and flowers was gay.) + + Poor Elfinella heard, and off she went, + With lagging steps and slow, + To where, amidst the wild, a fruit tree bent, + Her branches spreading low. + + With blossomy boughs the motherly old tree + The tearful child begirt: + "My twigs are clothed with flowers; and you will see + The switch will never hurt!" + + She broke a branch, with blossoms thickly set, + And lightly homeward tripped,-- + The switch was used--but little did she fret; + For she with flowers was whipped! + + + + +THE INDIGNANT BABY + + + Baby was out with Papa for a walk. + When their friends they met, it was "Oh!" and "Ah!" + "What a darling she is!" "Can the little kid talk?" + "Well--no; I don't think that she can," said Papa, + "Though she seems to understand." + + She was only two, but she understood, + And her small, rosy mouth was made up to cry-- + But no! she would _talk_--she would show that she could. + And, "Mamma," and "pretty," and "laly"--"by-by," + She said with a wave of her hand! + + + + +A QUESTION OF SPELLING + + + They were looking through their book + With pictures of the Zoo; + Both too young to read the text, + But each the pictures knew. + + Will was three, and Ray was five-- + And five years old is _old_! + When his wiser brother spoke, + Will did as he was told! + + "Look! I've found the _efalunt_!" + "Don't say _efalunt_," said Ray. + Said their mother: "You should tell + Little brother what to say." + + "Don't say efalunt--that's wrong; + It's _efalint_!" said Ray. + "_Efalint_!" said little Will, + In his confiding way. + + + + +"YOURS SEVERELY" + +(_The Letter of a Five Year Old_) + + + Once more she dipped her pen in ink, + And wrote: "I love you dearly." + "And now," she said, and stopped to think, + "I'll put, 'I'm + _Yours severely_.'" + + + + +A LACK OF ATTENTION + + + She had folded her hands, and had never stirred + Nor even spoken one little word. + In fact, she was good as good could be, + While the grown folks talked, and sipped their tea + At last, a small voice from the corner we heard: + "Nobody pays any pension to me!" + + + + +"I OUGHT TO MUSTN'T" + + + The chair was so near, and the shelf was so low, + And I opened the door just in time to see + The last of the coveted caramels go, + While a look imploring was cast on me, + "I ought to mustn't, I know!" + + The chair was so near, and the shelf was so low,-- + To punish, alas! no courage I had: + And I did as, perhaps, you yourself might do,-- + I kissed her, right there, so sweet and so bad! + But "I ought to mustn't," I knew! + + + + +A VAIN REGRET + + + He was six years old, just six that day, + And I saw he had something important to say, + As he held in his hand a broken toy: + He looked in my face for an instant, and then + He said, with a sigh, and a downcast eye, + "If I could live my life over again, + I think I could be a better boy!" + + + + +IN THE DARK LITTLE FLAT AT THE END OF THE COURT + + + What can the children in cities do, + The children shut in from wholesome sport-- + The children that live, all winter through, + In the dark little flat at the end of the court? + + Yet a comfort they have (and a beautiful one!), + Though the days are chill and the days are short; + At noon, for a moment, looks in the sun, + In the dark little flat at the end of the court. + + Then, the dazzled baby drops his toy, + Down tumbles the four-year-old's tottering fort-- + "Sunshine!" they all cry out, in their joy, + In the dark little flat at the end of the court. + + + + +THE LITTLE GIRL FROM TOWN + + + Us children liked her, though she was so queer, + When she came out to Pleasantville, last year; + She "mustn't walk upon the grass," she said: + We asked her _why_?--and she just shook her head! + + Oh, yes, us children liked the little kid, + Although she didn't know one thing _we_ did, + And said the oddest things you ever heard; + She saw a goose, and asked, "_What kind o' bird?_" + + Us children liked the little kid, oh, yes! + She wa'n't a bit afraid to tear her dress; + One day, when she went barefoot, just like us, + She got a stone-bruise; but she didn't _fuss_! + + Oh, yes! us children liked her, but oh, my! + We had to teach her how to play "high spy"; + She came to see us,--called our house "_a flat_"-- + I wonder now--what _could_ she mean by that? + + + + +FOR EVERY DAY + + + A flower for every day + That slips the sheath of jealous Night in May! + The violet at our feet, + The lilac's honeyed bough, + The wind-flower frail and sweet, + The apple-blossom now-- + Each keeps its promise, as Love keeps its vow: + A flower for every day in flowerful May! + + A song for every day + That breaks in music from the heart of May! + The warbler mid new leaves, + The lark in fields remote, + The housewren at our eaves, + The oriole's haunting note + When orchard blooms down fitful zephyrs float: + A song for every day in songful May! + + A joy for every day + That stirs the heart to count its joys in May! + Now Fear and Doubt take flight, + Borne down the season's stream; + Grief grows a shape of light, + And melts, a tender dream! + Now but to be alive is boon supreme-- + A joy for every day in joyful May! + + Be thanks for every day + That from thy heaven thou dost send in May! + My morn an anthem wake, + My noon sweet incense bear + Of labor for thy sake, + My evening breath a prayer. + For bloom--for song--for joy--shed everywhere, + Be thanks to thee each day in thankful May! + + + + +THE DAY-DREAMER + + + There's a day-dream strange and sweet, + Softly hovering in the air: + Now it stays the restless feet, + Now, it smoothes the wayward hair. + + Now, it droops the curly head, + Propped upon the window-sill-- + Parts the lips of rosebud red, + While the eyes with fancies fill. + + Sunbeams from the summer sky + Kiss the arm so round and bare: + There's a day-dream sweet and shy, + Softly hovering in the air! + + Is that dream of field or wood, + Mossy bank, or violet dell, + Thrush's nest, with downy brood + Lately prisoned in the shell? + + Comes that dream from fairyland, + Blown about in wondrous ways, + Like a skein of gossamer fanned + By a troop of laughing fays? + + Or, upon some elfin brook, + Wing of dragon-fly for sail, + Passing many a wildflower nook + Did it drift so light and frail? + + Little dreamer, if I dared, + I would say, "your day-dream tell!" + But it never can be shared, + And one word would break its spell! + + + + +BORN DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND + +(_At an Asylum_) + + + A flower-soft hand once took my own,-- + That touch I never shall forget! + A strange voice spoke--so strange a tone + Mine ear had never met! + + It said, "Come--see--my--garden,--Come!" + (The flower-soft fingers closer twined): + The voice of one born deaf and dumb, + The touch of one born blind! + + They thrilled me so, the tears came fast; + But in glad haste she led the way; + Through hall and open door we passed + Into a garden gay. + + Her share was but a little space. + It bloomed with pansies dark and bright; + And each looked up with elfin grace, + As though to win her sight. + + She smiled--the pansy-faces smiled + Through tears--or was it morning dew? + Down knelt the deaf and dumb, blind child + "I do--give--all--to--you!" + + I could not stay those fingers swift, + She plucked me all the flowers she had! + I never shall have any gift + So sweet as this,--so sad! + + + + +THE CRADLE-CHILD + + + Forgotten, in a chamber lone, + The hooded Cradle, brown and old, + Began to rock, began to moan, + "Where are the babes I used to hold?" + + "To men and women they are grown, + And through the world their way must make." + The Cradle rocked and made its moan, + "My babes no single step could take!" + + "A helmsman one, on wide seas blown, + His sinewy hands the wheel employs." + The Cradle rocked and made its moan, + "My babes could scarcely grasp their toys." + + "And one, with words of winning tone, + God's shepherd, goes the lost to seek." + The Cradle rocked and still made moan, + "The babes I held no word could speak!" + + "And one, with children of her own,-- + Her life is toil and love and prayer!" + The Cradle rocked and still made moan, + "My babes of babes could take no care!" + + "Now all that once were mine are flown + But one, that still with me shall bide"-- + (The Cradle ceased to rock, to moan)-- + "The sweetest one--the babe who died!" + + + + +SOME LADIES OF THE OLDEN TIME + + + A long time ago in Childhood's Land, + A troop of sweet ladies I knew, + If the truth must be told, I myself + Was their lady's maid, patient and true! + + I served them, I dressed them, I took them to walk, + I made the fine clothes that they wore; + Very dainty,--and delicate, too, were they all, + For they never arose until four! + + Wide were their flounces of crimson or white, + A little old fashioned for now; + Prim were their figures--ah, yes, I must own, + Their heads they never could bow! + + Their heads were so round and so small and so green-- + Not clever nor learnèd were they; + But then, they were only Four o'Clock Ladies, + And their life, 'twas a short one and gay! + + + + +A WATER LILY + + + Did I behold the Lady of the Lake + Part the cool water with a slender hand? + And brought she for her loved knight errant's sake + Out of some liquid crypt the magic brand? + + I dreamed it was the Lady of the Lake-- + I did but dream! Again I looked, and knew + The water lily, white as winter's flake, + But with a heart all gold and fragrant dew. + + + + +THE KINDERBANK[4] + +THE LITTLE MOTHERS + + + It was a day in warm July, + It was a far countree; + The bees were humming in the flowers + That filled the linden tree. + + The linden made a cooling shade + For many a yard around, + And flecks of sunlight here and there + Did dot the shady ground. + + A long, low, easy seat there was + Beneath the linden green; + And _Kinderbank_ across the back + In letters large was seen. + + I did not need that word to read, + To know the Children's Seat; + For there the grass was trodden down + By many little feet. + + Upon this day the _Kinderbank_ + Was full as it could be, + With children sitting in a row, + A pleasant sight to see. + + Each little woman bent her head, + Too busy far to speak; + Each had a lock of yellow hair + Slipped down across her cheek. + + Each little woman pursed her lips + Into a rosebud small, + And never knew how fast time flew-- + So busy were they all. + + One made the knitting-needles click, + With shining head bent low, + And earnest eyes intent to see + The winter stocking grow. + + Another, toiling at a seam, + The thread drew in and out; + And once she sighed--so hard she tried + To make the stitches stout! + + But ever, as they worked away, + And would not look around, + They watched the little ones that played + Before them on the ground. + + The little ones they laughed and cooed, + And talked their baby-talk; + Their feet so bare were rosy-fair-- + For only one could walk! + + His flaxen hair in ringlets stood + Upon his serious head; + His eyes so blue were serious, too; + And, drawing near, I said: + + "Whose precious baby boy is this, + So thoughtful and so sweet?" + Then up and spoke a little maid, + Of those upon the seat: + + "This baby--he belongs to me. + He goes just where I go; + And I'm his Little Mother--yes, + _My_ mother told me so! + + "She said that he was mine 'all day.' + And so it must be true; + I brushed his hair--I take good care, + As she herself would do. + + "And I'm quite sure that I can cure, + And drive the pain away, + With kisses, if my baby hurts + His little hand at play!" + + "And whose are all these babies here? + "Why--we--oh, don't you know?" + We all are Little Mothers--yes, + _Our_ mothers told us so!" + + The Little Mothers all looked up, + And each did nod her head: + "Our mothers told us so!" "Ah, then + 'Tis true, indeed," I said. + + I left them as I found them, there + Beneath the linden tree; + And often since that day I've thought + I'd like to go and see + + If still the Little Mothers sit + Upon the Children's Seat, + And watch their babies as they play + And tumble at their feet. + + [4] In German, the Children's Seat. + + + + +BUONAMICO + +_A Legend of Florence_ + + +I + + When Monte Morello is capped with snow, + And the wind from the north comes whistling down, + It is chill to rise with the morning star, + In the "City of Flowers"--in Florence town. + + +II + + Light is the sleep of the old, for they know + How brief are their few remaining days; + But when hearts are young, sleep lingers long, + And too sweet to leave are the dreamful ways. + + +III + + So, Tafi, the master, awoke with the light, + But the prentice lad, Buonamico, was young, + And his dreaming ears were loath to hear + The daybreak bell's awakening tongue. + + +IV + + For it seemed to speak with old Tafi's voice, + "Colors to grind, and the shop to be swept!" + Then, out of his bed, on the bare stone floor, + Poor Buonamico, shivering, crept. + + +V + + Busy all day with his quick, young hands,-- + Busy his thoughts with a project bold. + "The master will find," he said to himself, + "'Tis not well to work in the dark and the cold!" + + +VI + + But the master, unheeding the prentice lad, + Matched the mosaics fine and quaint; + Till his tablets of stone revealed the forms + Of Mother and Child, of cherub and saint. + + +VII + + Buonamico, meanwhile, forsook his tasks, + And, prying in crevice of wall or ground, + With a patience and skill boys only know, + Thirty great beetles the truant found. + + +VIII + + As many wax tapers, then, he took-- + Thirty small tapers (nor less, nor more), + And presto! each beetle, clumsy and slow, + On its broad black back a candle bore. + + +IX + + Next morning, ere dawn, when Tafi awoke, + Ere his lips could frame their usual call, + A sight he beheld that froze his veins-- + An impish procession of tapers small! + + +X + + Slowly they came, and slowly went + (And they seemed to pass through a crack 'neath the door): + So slowly they moved, he counted them all, + Thirty they numbered, nor less, nor more! + + +XI + + "Surely, some evil these hands have wrought, + That the powers of darkness invade my cell!" + And many an _Ave_ the master said, + To reverse and undo the unholy spell. + + +XII + + When daylight was come, Buonamico he told: + "A good lad ever thou wert, and indeed, + Wise for thy years; and, therefore, speak out, + And, as best thou canst, this mystery read." + + +XIII + + "May it not be," Buonamico said, + "The powers of darkness, that good men hate, + Are vexed with my master, who falters not + In faithful service, early and late?" + + +XIV + + "Ay, that they are," said the master, "no doubt!" + Said the prentice-boy, "_Their_ time is night, + And it _may_ be they like not this wondrous work + Which thou risest to do ere peep of light!" + + +XV + + "Well hast thou counseled," the master replied, + "So young of years--so sage in thy thought; + I will rise no more ere the day hath dawned-- + A work of light should in light be wrought!" + + +XVI + + Thus runs the legend, which also saith + Spite of his pranks Buonamico became, + When the years were fled, and Tafi was gone, + A painter who rivaled his master's fame. + + + + +THE PRINCE AND THE WHIPPING-BOY + + + Upon a day of olden days, + A royal lad at school, + In mischief apt, with many a prank, + Defied the good dame's rule. + + But England's prince no rod might strike, + Though rich was his desert; + Another must the penance bear, + Another feel the hurt! + + The "whipping-boy" stood forth to take + The blows he had not earned; + Full meek he stood; no sense of wrong + Within his bosom burned. + + Young Edward saw the rod upraised, + His "whipping-boy" to smite; + And suddenly his princely soul + Revolted at the sight. + + The shame, the shame, the tingling shame + No blood of kings could brook! + Forward he sprung, the falling rod + In his own hand he took: + + "Mine is the blame--be mine the shame + For what I only wrought; + Let none but me endure the pain + My deed alone has brought!" + + Thus on a day of days, it chanced, + A royal schoolboy learned + That noble hearts in every age + A coward's shield have spurned. + + + + +MASTER CORVUS + + + In Rome, beside the Forum, + A cobbler had his shop, + Where, on his way to school, + The schoolboy loved to stop. + + The sheets of well-tanned leather + Hung all about the wall; + The cobbler stitched and scolded, + Bent over last and awl. + + 'Twas not the cobbler's scolding + At which the schoolboys laughed, + Nor did they care to watch + His cunning handicraft. + + It was a dapper person + With coat as black as night, + That offered to the schoolboy + An all-year-round delight-- + + A droll yet silent person, + "Good morrow"--all his speech; + He stood upon a rostrum, + As though to teach or preach. + + It was the cobbler's raven, + "Good morrow!" clear and loud + He called, with mimic laughter + That charmed the truant crowd, + + Until, at last, reminded + Of school and pedagogue, + Of lecture, and of ferrule + To point his apologue. + + And now, would Master Corvus, + To while the time away, + Look 'round, to see what mischief + He might devise to-day. + + Alas, the raven's cunning + No bound nor measure knew; + Alas, the cobbler's temper-- + It never better grew! + + And when his choicest leather + Embossed with claw and beak, + He saw--upon the raven + Swift vengeance he did wreak! + + Which done, morose and sullen, + He sat him down once more; + Nor scolded when the schoolboys + Called through the open door: + + "Good morrow, Master Corvus!"... + No shrill and joyous croak + Responded from within; + And then their anger broke. + + "How daredst thou kill the raven,-- + The better man of two?" + They seized and beat the cobbler, + Till he for life did sue. + + Then took they Master Corvus + From where he lifeless lay-- + Their dear and droll companion, + And carried him away. + + Said one, "There is a duty + Which to our friend we owe: + In life we gave him honor, + And honor still we'll show!" + + "That will we!" cried they warmly + (Young Romans long ago)-- + "In life we gave him honor, + And honor still we'll show!" + + Next day, along the Forum, + With slow and measured tread, + Defiled the long cortège + Of Master Corvus dead. + + His bier was heaped with garlands, + A piper went before; + And (as they had been kinsmen) + Two blacks the casket bore. + + Then, down the Via Sacra + The sad procession moved, + While at their doors and windows + The people all approved. + + And thus to Master Corvus + Full rites his friends did pay, + And buried him, 'tis said, + Beside the Appian Way, + + With lightly sprinkled earth + Above his glossy breast-- + With stone, and due inscription, + _Hic jacet_--and the rest. + + + + +"P. ABBOTT" + +(_A Tradition of Westminster Abbey_) + + + 'Tis a saying that stolen sweets are sweeter, + And so with my hero it was, I think, + "P. Abbott,"--if Philip or Paul or Peter, + 'Twill never be known; there's a missing link. + + The legend declares (without praise or censure) + A youth had been challenged to sleep all night + In the gray old Abbey; a madcap adventure, + But madcap adventures were his delight. + + In the Chapel of Kings, in Westminster Abbey, + You may see the stone that was brought from Scone, + And above it, the armchair, old and shabby, + Where every king has _once_ had his throne. + + Monarchs in marble, greater or lesser, + And at least three queens of the English land-- + In a circle they lie, round the good Confessor, + Crown on the head and scepter in hand. + + Gone from his tomb are the wondrous riches + It once did hold, both of gems and gold; + But you still may see the Gothic niches + Where the sick awaited the cure of old. + + Beggar or lord, poor drudge or duchess, + Alike might they hope for the good saint's aid; + And they left their jewels, or dropped their crutches + As token that not in vain had they prayed. + + 'Twas St. Edward's Day, and the throng, gladhearted + With the blessing of peace had gone its way; + The last red beam of the sun had departed, + And twilight spread through the chapel gray. + + And the marble kings on their marble couches + Once more they are lying in state, alone + Save for a nimble shadow that crouches + Behind the stone that was brought from Scone; + + And the aged verger was never the wiser, + As he passed that stone and the oaken chair; + Though watchful was he as watchful miser, + He never discovered my hero was there. + + When the keys at his leather girdle jingled, + How loud did they sound in young Abbott's ear! + And when they were still, how the silence tingled! + How dim was the light!--yet why should he fear? + + The night was before him, the shadows were dreary + As forth from his hiding-place he crept. + There was nothing to do; his eyelids grew weary, + And into the chair he crept and slept. + + Never before, and nevermore since then, + Hath any but royalty sat in that chair; + But my hero himself, I hold, was a prince then-- + Of the Realm of Youth and of dreams most fair! + + But with the dawn his slumbers were broken, + And, rubbing his eyes, he sat bolt upright. + "'Twere folly," he cried, "if I left no token + To prove that I stayed in the Abbey all night." + + So he carved his name, and carved it quaintly, + As pleased him best, on that ancient seat. + And the sculptured kings in the dawn smiled faintly-- + But never a one forbade the feat! + + Then, somehow and somewhere, discreetly he flitted; + And when the old verger returned for the day, + "I warrant," he muttered, with bent brows knitted, + "Something uncanny hath passed this way!" + + With the record of kings and of statesmen and sages, + This of a mischievous youth is shown: + "P. Abbott,"--a name that has lasted for ages, + Nicked on the seat of that oaken throne! + + + + +THE GIANT'S DAUGHTER + + + My story's of the olden day + Beside the hurrying, blue Rhine water,-- + My story's of a runaway,-- + The Giant Niedeck's little daughter! + + She wanders at her own sweet will, + Her flaxen ringlets wide she tosses: + A dozen steps--she climbs the hill, + A dozen more--a vineyard crosses! + + The pine trees young aside are brushed, + As though they were but nodding grasses; + She laughs aloud--the birds are hushed, + And hide away until she passes! + + She heeds them not,--the giant mite, + So bent upon her own wild pleasure; + And now she sees a wondrous sight, + A curious thing for her to treasure! + + "Oh, what a lovely toy I've found!" + She clapped her hands in childish wonder. + (The great trees trembled, miles around, + The rocks gave back a sound like thunder.) + + A plowman with his horse,--the toy,-- + A plowman at his daily drudging: + She snatched them up with eager joy; + And home the giant child went trudging. + + She reached the castle out of breath, + And from her pocket (says my fable) + She drew the ploughman, scared to death, + And laid him swooning on the table. + + And then away in haste she sped, + To bring her nurse and lady mother; + "Now, burn my wooden dolls," she said. + "Live toys are best--I'll have no other!" + + The giant lady, fair and mild, + Thus spake unto her little daughter: + "Go, take the plowman back, my child, + To fields beside the blue Rhine water. + + "Though weak and small, his heart is great; + And Liebchen, if we kept him here, + All day, beside his cottage gate, + Would weep for him his children dear." + + Then back the giant child did go, + And left the plowman where she found him; + And when the sun was sinking low, + He started up and looked around him. + + "I must have dreamed," he laughed outright, + As when some sudden fancy pleases; + "And I will tell my dream to-night + When Gretchen for a story teases!" + + + + +EROTION AND THE DOVE. + + + I was too young, they said (I was not seven), + But I would understand, as I grew older, + Why the White Dove that died was not in heaven. + But they were wrong, for when I came to heaven,-- + When first I came, and all was strange and lonely, + My pretty pet flew straight upon my shoulder! + And there she stays all day; at evening only, + Between my hands, close to my breast, I fold her. + + + + +THE HOMESICK SOLDIER + + + The soldier woke at the quail's first note, + At dawn, on the grassy couch where he lay: + "O bird, that calls from the fields of home, + What do my darlings so far away?" + "They are up and ready to roam; + They scatter the dew with their small bare feet, + And laugh as they wade through the meadow sweet." + + The soldier paused on the dusty march, + And stooped by the cooling stream to drink: + "O river, that runs through the fields of home, + What do my dear ones, who dwell on thy brink?" + "Farther and farther they roam-- + They are sending their mimic fleets adrift; + And they follow them borne on my current swift." + + The soldier sank on the twilight sward, + And the vigilant lights were thronging above; + "O stars that shine on the fields of home, + What do they now, whom most I love?" + "They have ceased to roam, to roam,-- + And are lisping a prayer at their mother's knee; + And that prayer, and her tears, are for thee, for thee!" + + + + +THE COSSACK MOTHER + + + My little one will die to-night + (Then break, my heart, oh, break!); + But 'twill not be a lonely flight + Her tender soul shall take. + + For there, where smoky clouds are spread, + That blot the sunset sky, + Are many dying, many dead, + And others yet to die. + + My child loved soldiers so! And they, + Whene'er they passed this door, + Would toss her in their arms, in play, + And laugh when she cried, "More!" + + So, when she passes hence to-night, + They, too,--the brave, the strong, + As up they climb the heavenly height, + Will bear her soul along! + + With spirit lances shining clear, + They reach God's citadel:-- + My little one will have no fear, + With friends she loves so well. + + + + +THE BLOSSOM-CHILD + + + The flowers, the haunted flowers of May, + They bring delight, they bring heartache; + What wondrous things to me they say! + + So bright--so dim, so sad--so gay, + No stem of theirs I dare to break-- + The flowers--the haunted flowers of May! + + When lip to lip they softly lay-- + As soft, as still, as flake on flake, + What wondrous things to me they say! + + For lo! there comes with them to play, + A child, whose feet no imprint make-- + The flowers--the haunted flowers of May! + + From Childhood's Land they take their way, + They bloom but for that flower-child's sake-- + What wondrous things to me they say! + + With them it lives, their little day; + With them, each new-born year, 'twill wake; + The flowers--the haunted flowers of May, + What wondrous things to me they say! + + + + +THE CLOCK OF THE YEAR + + + 'Tis the Curfew of the Year, when falls and fades the maple's leafy + fire. + 'Tis Midnight of the Year, when streams beneath a fretted roof + retire. + It is the Small Hours of the Year, when none of all that sleep will + wake, + Howe'er the legion storms of heaven their deep and hidden fastness + shake. + It is the Dark Hour ere the Dawn, when, through the growing rifts of + sleep, + The wistful-eyed and moaning dreams of other days begin to peep. + But when, amid the softening rain, aloft, so mellow and so clear, + The first flute of the robin sounds, it is the Daybreak of the Year! + + + + +III + +SOME OF THEIR FRIENDS + + + + +THE YOUNG OF SPRING + + + There are so many, many young! + So many, in thy world, O Spring, + And scarcely yet they find a tongue, + Their wants to cry, their joys to sing. + + There are so many, many young young-- + Be tender to such tenderness; + And let soft arms be round them flung, + Keep them from blight, from weather stress! + + White lambs upon the green-lit sward, + And dappled darlings of the kine-- + O Spring, have them in watch and ward + And mother them--for all are thine. + + There are so many, many young! + Thine, too, the wild mouse and her brood + Within a last year's bird's-nest swung-- + And all shy litters of the wood! + + There are so many, many young young-- + Guard all--guard closeliest this year's nest; + Oh, guard, for Joy, the songs unsung + Within the thrush's speckled breast! + + + + +THE TRIUMPH OF THE BROWN THRUSH + + + A recent convention of Nature's musicians + (Their entire resolutions the Owlet quotes) + Took "high southern ground," and, from lofty positions, + All muffled in feathers and down, to their throats, + Resolved to expel, without any conditions, + The cuckoo-like fellow who stole their best notes. + + With spirit the Song-sparrow opened the session; + "I'm with you," whistled the Oriole, "I + Would like him subjected to public confession"-- + "And fined!" the Vireo said with a sigh. + "Pshaw!" hissed the Wren, with ruffled aggression, + "Pluck him, I say, and then bid him fly!" + + Answered the Brown Thrush, high in his palace, + "'Tis true I have taken your notes--less or more-- + And mingled them well (for I bear you no malice), + Just as the wines some wizard of yore + Would mingle together, then pour from his chalice + Magic new wine never tasted before!" + + + + +DAY--WIDE DAY! + + + Day to the washing seas, and to the patient land, + And to the little nautilus upon the sand. + + Day to the toiler gone afield, and to the child, + And to the peetweet's brood amid the marshes wild. + + While these awake to toil and those awake to play, + How glad are all that breathe, that night has winged away! + + For light and life are friends, and night their ancient foe. + Awake, ye birds, to song, ye buds, begin to blow! + + + + +THE BLOSSOMS OF TO-MORROW + + + The sun was shining, after rain, + The garden gleamed and glistened; + I heard a humblebee complain-- + I bent me down and listened. + + Around a nodding stalk he flew, + That bore white lilies seven; + And five were opened wide, and two + Slept in their lily heaven. + + The foolish bee, the grumbling bee, + That might have found a palace + (As any one beside could see) + Within the honeyed chalice-- + + The grumbling bee, the foolish bee, + Still hummed one note of sorrow: + "Oh, that to-day would give to me + The blossoms of to-morrow." + + From bud to bud, the livelong hour, + I saw him pass and hover, + And pry about each fast-shut flower, + Some entrance to discover. + + A discontented mind, no doubt, + A moral here should borrow; + I only say: "Don't fret about + The blossoms of to-morrow!" + + + + +THE NEST IN THE HEATHER + +(_In Scotland it was an old custom for the young people on Easter +morning to hunt for eggs of the wild fowl_) + + + Oh, fine it is at Easter + To hunt the wild fowl's nest! + A rush o' wings--a feather + From aff a broodin' breast-- + A twinkle o' the heather-- + An' weel ye ken the rest! + + Before we've ta'en a dewbit, + A' in the morning gray, + It's callin' ane anither + In haste to be away-- + It's cryin', "Wish me, mither, + The best luck o' the day!" + + An' mither's gi'en us kisses, + Wi' little sighs between; + An' if a teardrop's blinkin' + Within her tender een, + It's, maybe, that she's thinkin' + O' Easters that hae been! + + Then lads and lassies scatter, + To hunt the eggs sae white; + They thither run, an' hither, + An' shout in their delight! + An' if twa hunt thegither, + They ken it isna right! + + No laddie to a lassie + Of hidden nest may tell; + Nor lass of laddie ask it, + But she maun seek hersel'! + Wha brings the fullest basket-- + Guid luck wi' him shall dwell! + + Oh, fine it is at Easter + To hunt the wild fowl's nest; + An' when the sun is beamin', + It's hame we'll gang in haste; + For now the brose is steamin,' + The chair for us is placed! + + But oh! for a' the pleasure, + Ae thing I canna thole-- + The puir wild birdie's greetin'-- + It's pierced my verra soul! + I hear ilk ane repeatin', + "It was my eggs ye stole!" + + + + +LADY-GROVE (SILVER BIRCHES) + + + This side the deeper wood, + Of somber oak and pine, + A dryad sisterhood + Upon the hill's incline, + In poised expectance stand, + As waiting but the sign, + To dance a saraband! + + The oaks and pines, alway, + A darkling mystery hide. + In Lady-Grove, all day, + The cheerful sunbeams glide; + And many a singing brood + In peace and joy abide + With this lov'd sisterhood. + + Their raiment fair is wove + Of tender green and white: + Come, Breeze, to Lady-Grove + And put their trance to flight; + For if they once were freed-- + My Silver Birches light-- + Ah, what a dance they'd lead! + + + + +SHADOW BROOK + + + Shadow Brook creeps round the hill, + Shadow Brook darts past the mill-- + Coming from the wood, in haste + Seeks again its native waste! + Meanwhile, every friend it meets + + For protection it entreats; + Saying: "Willows, close around, + That my path may not be found! + Grass and sedges interlace, + Throw a veil across my face! + Clematis and gold-thread weave + Meshes that can best deceive! + + Celandine and gentian rise, + And my ripples help disguise! + Pebbles, do not tempt to play + Lest my laughter should betray! + Silent as my minnows are, + I would glide afar, afar: + Help me, friends, to reach the wood, + And its happy solitude, + Where I have my chosen bed + Of the brown leaves underspread." + + Thus, in ways it knoweth best, + Shadow Brook runs on its quest, + Shadow Brook--a hermit stream-- + Finding life a pleasant dream. + + + + +THE BROOK AND THE BIRD + + + I listened to a summer brook + That rippled past my shady seat; + Now far, now near, now vague, now clear, + The music of its liquid feet. + + Few tones the slender rillet has has-- + That few how sweet, how soothing sweet! + A live delight, by day, by night, + The music of its liquid feet! + + While there I mused, a songbird lit + And swung above my shady seat: + He heard the brook, and straightway took + The music of its liquid feet! + + A bird's bright glance on me he bent,-- + A bird's glance, fearless yet discreet; + As who might say, "This roundelay + Of liquid joy I can repeat!" + + The mimic carol done, once more + He needs must try its measures sweet;-- + Again, again, that rippling strain + My songbird did repeat, repeat! + + Since then I've learned that human breasts + To few and simple measures beat; + O blessed bird, my heart-warm word + I, too, repeat, repeat, repeat! + + + + +THE BIRDS OF SOLEURE + + + Thrifty the folk in the town of Soleure, + And they steadily ply their fathers' trade; + Proud are they, too, that, year after year, + The watches and clocks of the world they have made. + + Click go the seconds, kling go the hours, + In the town of Soleure the time is well kept! + Ever, new steel they cut and trim, + While into the street the filings are swept. + + Only waste metal, unfit for use; + But it catches the sunshine and glitters still-- + And what are those thrushes doing there, + Each with a scrap of steel in its bill? + + The watchmaker's boy has paused with his broom, + And he follows the birds with a boy's keen eye; + Their secret he learns, and whither they go, + In the leafy tent of yon linden high! + + Their secret he guards the springtime through, + And he smiles when he hears the young ones call; + "Never had birdlings a cradle like theirs-- + Surely to them can no harm befall!" + + When the leaves are flying and birds are flown, + 'Tis out on the linden bough he swings-- + The fearless lad that he is--and thence, + A wonderful nest of steel he brings! + + It yet may be seen in the town of Soleure, + To show how the skill of the birds began + At the point where human skill fell short; + For they used what was waste in the hands of man. + + + + +THE PRAIRIE NEST + + + Where, think you, a little gray finch in the far wide West + Chose (of all places!) to build and to brood her nest? + + Well, I will tell you the tale that the hunter told: + (Strange things has he seen--this hunter grizzled and old.) + + He spoke of the cattle that came to no herder's call, + Roaming the fenceless prairie from springtime to fall. + + A shot from his rifle laid low the king of the herd-- + When, hark! the sharp cry of a circling and hovering bird! + + What did it mean? The hunter drew in his rein, + And leaped to the ground, where dead lay the lord of the plain! + + Stilled was the beating heart, and glazed were the eyes; + The fluttering bird circled higher, and sharper her cries; + + While, finer and fainter, yet many, and all as keen, + Came cries from below, as in answer. What could it mean? + + The hunter bent down; and his heart with wonder was stirred, + When he saw, between the wide horns, the nest of a bird, + + Like a crown which the prairie's monarch might choose to wear + On his shaggy forelock, and lined with the friendly hair! + + The hunter stood still, abashed in the midst of the plain, + To hear the little gray mother's cry of pain, + + And the faint fine voices of nestlings answer the cry; + While their fearless friend lay dead between earth and sky! + + + + +THE MOVING OF THE NEST + + + Do not ask me _why?_ or _how?_-- + All in Fairyland it chanced, + As the leaves upon the bough + In the autumn breezes danced! + + "Quip-a-quip-a-quip-a-queer!" + Said the Thrush unto his mate. + "We must soon be gone from here; + No one else would stay so late!" + + Do not ask me _why?_ or _how?_-- + But his mate did sorely grieve: + "My dear nest upon this bough + It will break my heart to leave!" + + Do not ask me _how?_ or _why?_-- + But the thrush's children, too, + Perched around, began to cry, + "Oh, whatever shall we do?" + + "Cheep-a-cheep-a-cheep-a-cheer! + Never such a nest as ours; + We would rather have it, _here_, + Than Bermuda and the flowers!" + + "Cheep-a-cheep-a-cheep-a-cheer," + Pleaded then the thrush's mate: + "Let us take the nest, my dear, + It is light and we are eight!" + + (Do not ask me _why?_ or _how?_--) + But the thrushes, with a cheer, + Took that nest from off the bough-- + "Quip-a-quip-a-quip-a-queer! + + "Quip-a-quip-a-quip-a-queer! + Firmly, now, with beak and claw; + Spread your wings, and never fear,-- + _You_ to push, and _you_ to draw!" + + So the thrushes took their nest, + Every one his strength applied; + But the youngest 'twas thought best + Should be snugly tucked inside. + + All in Fairyland it chanced! + There is nothing more to say; + Ere the morn was far advanced, + They were miles and miles away! + + + + +THE WIDOWED EAGLE + + + Out from the aërie beloved we flew, + Now through the white, and now through the blue; + Glided beneath us hilltop and glen, + River and meadow and dwellings of men! + + We flew, we flew through the regions of light + And the wind's wild pæan followed our flight! + Free of the world, we flew, we flew-- + Bound to each other alone,--we two! + + To the shivering migrant we called "Adieu!" + Mid the frost-sweet weather, we flew, we flew! + Till, hark from below! the hiss of lead, + And one of us dropped, as a plume is shed! + + Around and around I flew, I flew, + Wheeling my flight, ever closer I drew! + There, on the earth, my belovèd lay, + With a crimson stain on her breast-plumes gray! + + And creatures of earth we had scorned before, + Now measured the wings that would lift no more: + And I stooped, as an arrow is shot from the height, + And sought to bear her away in my flight flight-- + + Away to our aërie far to seek! + Well did I fight with talons and beak; + But the craven foe, in their numbers and might, + Bore her in triumph out of my sight! + + + + +THE CHICKADEE + + + Black-cap, madcap, + Never tired of play, + What's the news to-day? + "Faint-heart, faint-heart, + Winter's coming up this way, + And the winter comes to stay!" + + Black-cap, madcap, + Whither will you go, + Now the storm-winds blow? + "Faint-heart, faint-heart, + In the pine boughs, thick and low, + We are sheltered from the snow!" + + Black-cap, madcap, + In the snow and sleet, + What have you to eat? + "Faint-heart, faint-heart, + Seeds and berries are a treat, + When the frost has made them sweet!" + + Black-cap, madcap, + Other birds have flown + To a summer zone! + "Faint-heart, faint-heart, + When they're gone, we black-caps own + Our white playground all alone!" + + + + +THE EARTH-MOTHER AND HER CHILDREN + + + Her children all were gathered round her, + One olden, golden day; + Between her tender, drooping eyelids + She watched them feed or play. + + Upon the lion's living velvet + She pillowed her fair head; + A white fawn pushed its dewy muzzle + Beneath the hand that fed. + + A goldfinch clung upon a ringlet + That brushed her wide, smooth brow; + And, thence, right merrily he answered + His comrades on the bough. + + But at her feet there lay a sleeper, + Of subtly-fashioned limb; + Whose motion, force and will to be, + Kept yet their prison dim. + + And round about his couch of slumber + The rest a space did make: + "Your peace" (the Mother told her children) + "Is broken, if he wake! + + "Lo! this--the best of all created-- + Shall yet an evil bring: + And ye in doubt shall graze the pasture, + And ye in fear shall sing. + + "For your dear sake, my lesser children, + I keep him long asleep; + Play on, sing on, a happy season-- + His dreams be passing deep!" + + Thus, while her children gathered round her, + And while Man sleeping lay, + The fair Earth-Mother softly murmured, + "It is your Golden Day!" + + + + +"WHEN THE LEAVES ARE GONE" + + + When the leaves are gone, the birds are gone, + And 'tis very silent at the dawn. + Snowbird, nuthatch, chickadee,-- + Come and cheer the lonely tree! + + When the leaves are gone, the flowers are gone, + Fast asleep beneath the ground withdrawn. + Flowers of snow, so soft and fine-- + Clothe the shivering branch and vine! + + + + +THE FIRST THANKSGIVING + +(1621) + + + I would like to lift the curtain + Hides the past from mortal view, + For a glimpse of one Thanksgiving + When New England still was new. + + I would like to see that feast day + Bradford for his people made, + Ere the onset of the winter, + That their hearts might be upstayed. + + First he sent a score of yeomen, + Skilled in woodcraft, sure of aim; + All one day they spent in hunting, + That there might be store of game. + + Fathers, brothers (aye, and lovers!), + Home they bring the glossy deer; + Some but praise their hunter's prowess, + Some, soft-hearted, drop a tear. + + I would like to see those housewives, + Busy matrons, maidens too, + Watching by the ripening oven, + Bending o'er the home-made brew. + + I would like to see the feasting + Where the snowy cloth is spread; + Here shall no one be forgotten, + Here shall all be warmed and fed. + + Welcome, too, ye friendly shadows + At the white man's feast and sport, + Tufted warriors, grave onlooking, + Massasoit and his court. + + + + +"MASCOTS" + + + Home they come from Cuba Libre; + And they march with hastening feet + Underneath the floating banners, + Up the thronged and ringing street. + + When you cheer your sunburnt heroes, + Don't forget their pensioners small, + Led along, or perched on shoulder, + Four-foot, furry "mascots" all! + + Comrades of the march and bivouac, + Sharers of the cup and can, + All unconscious of their portion + In the drama played by man. + + Did they bring, perchance, good fortune + (As they brought their owners joy)? + Ask the youth who owns the "mascot"-- + For a soldier's but a boy! + + + + +MOTHER FUR + + + I wonder what charm there can be in fur? + The kitten curls up and begins to purr, + The puppy tumbles about in the rug + In his silly way and gives it a hug, + And mousekin, that even a shadow can scare, + For a moment lies still in the long, soft hair + Then slips away to its home in the wall. + Can it be--poor darlings! that each and all + Believe 'tis their mother, and hasten to her? + + All babies, I think, love old Mother Fur; + For my little brother--too little to speak-- + See how he nestles his peach-blossom cheek + In the velvet coat that the tiger wore, + As it lies stretched out at length on the floor! + Tiger, if you were alive--dear me! + I shudder to think how cruel you'd be. + No doubt in your day you did harm enough, + But now you're safe as my tippet or muff! + You, too, I will call (since you never can stir) + Old Mother Fur, kind Mother Fur! + + + + +WHAT THE CAT-MOTHER SAID + + + We live in a cave the wild-rose bushes hide, + For my kittens and I were turned out of the house. + There are plenty of birds here, on every side-- + And a bird I must catch, for I can't find a mouse! + + + + +WHAT THE BIRD-MOTHER SAID + + + Keep still in the nest, O my birdlings dear, + While I search for a worm! Do not chirrup one word! + There's a cruel tigress crouching so near-- + For her hungry cubs she is seeking a bird! + + + + +WHAT THE FRIEND OF BOTH SAID + + + The friend of both to pity was stirred, + And a wish divided, her heart possessed: + "May you hungry kittens lack never a bird"-- + "May you birdlings dear be safe in your nest!" + + + + +THE LITTLE BROWN BAT + + + Quoth the little brown bat: "I rise with the owl,-- + Wisest and best of the feathered fowl; + Let other folks rise, if they will, with the lark, + And be early and bright--I am early and dark!" + + Quoth the little brown bat: "I'm awake and up, + When the night-moth sips from the lily's white cup; + While the firefly lanterns are searching the sky, + I am glancing about, with fiery eye!" + + Quoth the little brown bat: "The night has its noon + As well as its day--and I'm friends with the moon. + Many a secret she tells me alone, + Which never a bird or a bee has known!" + + Quoth the little brown bat: "There is house-room for me, + When the winter comes, in some hollow tree; + Or under barn eaves, near the fragrant hay, + I sleep the dull winter hours away." + + + + +THE LOST CHARTER + +(_Based on an Arabic Legend_) + + +PERSONS + + Bounce, a wire-haired Terrier; + Tip, a tortoise-shell Cat; + An old and faithful Servant of both. + + Prologue by Old Servant, as follows: + We three before the fire, one night, + Had but its flickering blaze for light-- + My dog, my cat, on either side; + I mused, while they grew sleepy-eyed. + But, if they waked, or if they slept, + Still each some watch on other kept. + Now what is this, good Bounce, good Tip, + That mars your perfect fellowship? + Speak up! Speak up! you, Tip,--you, Bounce, + Your mutual grievances announce. + + At this my dog awoke from doze, + Drew near, and thrust a foolish nose + Beneath my hand; then, deeply sighed. + Her gold-stone eyes Tip opened wide, + The middle of the hearth she took, + And cast on Bounce a scornful look; + And then, this colloquy began, + Which I record as best I can. + + +THE DIALOGUE + + + TIP: + Dear Mistress, plainly I must speak; + For _he_, who should be dumb and meek, + The simple truth would never say + And his own foolish act betray betray-- + + BOUNCE (_interrupting pleadingly_): + Oh, do not heed her, Mistress dear; + Think how I love you, guard you, cheer! + + TIP (_proceeds with withering disregard_): + When all we creatures were assigned + Our places with your human kind, + ('Twas long ago) while some became + Your slaves--as spiritless as tame, + We two, as friends, beneath your roof + Were lodged, because we each gave proof proof-- + + BOUNCE (_licking Old Servant's hand_): + Yes, yes--I of my faithfulness-- + Man calls on me in all distress! + + TIP (_severely_): + You blundering, careless beast, be still! + My cleanliness, my grace, my skill, + Did, quite as much myself commend! + That we should live, not slave, but friend + To Master Man was then agreed: + But since of caution there is need, + We asked a written document; + To which our Master did consent. + Puffed up with confidence and pride, + _He_ took the document to hide. + + [_Extends her paw towards Bounce, who winces + and buries his nose deeper under old Servant's + hand_ + + He hid it in his old bone-cave; + And then, no further thought he gave + The precious charter of our rights-- + Engaged in noisy bouts and fights! + + Bounce (_excitedly_): + There was foul play, O Mistress mine-- + The other creatures did combine! + + TIP: + Hush! 'twas your carelessness, in chief, + That gave the chance to knave and thief! + The jealous Ox and Horse conspired, + And then, the villain Rat they hired + To delve in darkness underground + Till he the precious charter found, + And brought the Horse and Ox, who thought + Their liberty could thus be bought,-- + The tiresome creatures! To this day + They drudge and drudge, the same old way! + The Ox, the Ass, the Horse--these all + Divided with the Rat their stall, + And from their mangers grain they gave-- + Such price they paid the thievish knave! + What loss was ours, we scarce can know-- + The charter we could never show! + I might have had a dais spread + With crimson velvet, and been fed + On golden finches every day; + But, as for _him_ (_indicating Bounce_), he's naught to say + (He lost the charter of our rights)-- + When flogged, or chained on moonlight nights! + Upon one subject, only, we + Can always heartily agree, + + [_gracefully waving her paw_, + + You, careless Dogs, we, careful Cats-- + Our common enemy-- + + BOUNCE: + Yes, Rats! + + [_Joyously embracing opportunity to reinstate + himself_ + + Old Servant (_starting up suddenly_): + Ah, who said "Rats!" just now--and where? + And why cannot you two play fair? + + [_At this, Tip is seen to be occupying her own + corner of the hearth, and Bounce to be sound asleep, + his nose deeply buried between his forepaws. Old + Servant rubs her eyes, then smiles thoughtfully, + and settles back in easy-chair_ + + + + +THE SAVING OF JACK + +_An East Side Incident_ + + + "Whose dog is Jack?" He belongs to this street. + Needs anti-fat--has too much to eat. + "Houseless and homeless?"--Well I guess not; + In the whole of this block there isn't a tot + But has had Jack home to board and to sleep, + And he pays 'em in fun, every cent of his keep. + He's the best-natured dog, and the smartest, too; + No end of the tricks we've taught him to do. + Got a heap of sense in his yellow hide! + He's the wonderf'lest dog on the whole East Side; + Why, even the dog-man doesn't know + What breed Jack is,--for he told me so! + The dog-catchers came a'most every day, + But Jack knew their cart, and he'd hide away; + Then out he'd come, laughing, when they'd got past. + Can't _guess_ how he ever was cotched at last; + But he was, and they boosted him into their cart, + And nobody there could take his part. + My! but the little kids cried like mad, + And us bigger ones, too,--we felt just as bad; + For he'd rode us all on his old yellow back. + It looked as though it was all up with Jack, + And I watched him go; but he cocked one eye + As much as to say, "I'll be back by and by." + The look that he gave me--it made me _think_; + And I thought of a plan as quick as wink + And I says, "Feller-citizens, ladies and gents, + I guess that we've each of us got a few cents, + And we'll club together and have a show, + And charge a price, not high nor low; + And we'll raise the money, right here and now, + That'll buy Jack back by to-morrow--that's how! + Tony, the Eyetalian boy, he'll sing; + And Patsy McGovern'll do his handspring; + And Ikey Aarons'll swallow his knife, + And make us all think he's taking his life, + And little Freda, she'll pass round the hat, + She'll smile and say nothing--she's just good for that!" + Well, we emptied our pockets--you bet we did!-- + Every one of us big 'uns and each little kid + Ran home for their banks as fast as they could; + And we raised the money, and all felt good; + And next day, early, we brought Jack back. + So, now, things run in the same old track, + But he's got his license and _don't have to hide_! + And we've bought him a _byootiful collar beside_. + + + + +SKYE OF SKYE + + + Skye, of Skye, when the night was late, + And the burly porter drowsy grew, + Ran down to the silent pier, to wait + Till the boat came in with its hardy crew. + + Skye, of Skye, as he sat on the pier, + Turned seaward ever a watchful eye, + And his shaggy ears were pricked to hear + The plash of oars, as the boat drew nigh. + + Skye, of Skye, when they leaped ashore, + Greeted the crew with a joyful cry-- + Kissed their hands, and trotted before + To the inn that stood on the hilltop high. + + Within, was the porter sound asleep-- + They could almost hear his lusty snore: + Then Skye, of Skye, with an antic leap, + Would pull on the bellrope that swung by the door. + + Then was the bolt drawn quickly back back-- + Then did the jolly crew stream in; + And--"Landlaird, bring us your best auld sack!" + And--"Aweel, aweel, where hae ye been?" + + Then Skye, of Skye, on the beach-white floor, + Sanded that day by the housemaid neat, + Lay down to rest him--his vigils o'er, + With his honest nose between his feet. + + But Skye, of Skye as he rolled his eye + On the friendly crowd, heard his master say, + "Na, na, that doggie ye couldna buy-- + Not though his weight in gold ye would pay!" + + Skye, of Skye, they have made him a bed + On the wind-swept cliff, by the ocean's swell; + On the stone they have reared above his head, + You may see a little dog ringing a bell. + + + + +TIP'S KITTEN + + + The master,--he loved my kitten, my kitten; + She was still too weak to stand, + When he placed her upon one hand, + And over it laid the other, + And looked at me kindly, and said, + "Tip, you're a proud little mother!" + + For they'd left me but one, my kitten, my kitten-- + As sweet as a kitten could be-- + And I loved her for all the three + They had taken away without warning. + I watched her from daylight till dark, + Watched her from night until morning! + + I never left my kitten, my kitten + (For I feared--and I loved her so!) + Till I thought it time she should know + That cats in the house have a duty, + And a right to be proud of their skill, + As well as their grace and their beauty. + + I only left my kitten, my kitten, + A few short moments in all, + To punish the mouse in the wall, + Each day growing bolder and bolder; + And I brought her the mouse to show + What kittens must do when older. + + I brought her the mouse--my kitten, my kitten! + I tossed it, I caught it for her; + But she would not see, nor stir. + My heart it beat fast and faster; + And I caught her up in my mouth, + And carried her so, to the master. + + I thought he would help--my kitten, my kitten! + And I laid her down at his feet-- + (Never a kitten so sweet, + And he knew that I had no other!) + But he only said, "Poor Tip, + 'Tis a sad day for you, little mother!" + + + + +THE KING OF CATS + + +I + + The wind comes down the chimney with a sigh, + The kettle sings, chain-swung from grimy hook, + While ticks the clock unseen on mantel high. + The black cat holds the cosiest chimney-nook, + Straight in the blaze his gold-stone eyeballs look, + And children four do pay him flattering court. + The baby brings to him its picture-book, + And shows the way to build a castled fort. + The black cat shares, indeed, their every thought and sport. + + +II + + The black cat came to us a twelvemonth since; + The black cat is a stranger with us yet; + We treat him well; we call him our Black Prince. + So thick and glossy is his coat of jet + You well might say that you have never met + A cat so lordly, though he seems to brood + Over some wrong he never can forget. + We know that he could tell us, if he would-- + Our dear Black Prince, so sad, so gentle, and so good! + + +III + + "You prattle, children. Fritz, bestir yourself! + The fire needs wood, so hungry is the wind; + And Elsa, bring the platters from the shelf + And lay the table. You, too, Gretchen, mind, + For you of late are carelessly inclined, + And brittle is the _blaue glocken_ ware. + Make haste, else will your father come and find, + For all his day's hard work, but churlish fare. + Full sure I am no man works harder anywhere." + + +IV + + The good house-mother speaks, and not in vain, + For promptly all her willing brood obey. + They hear the dead leaves click against the pane, + Updriven by the wind in its mad play. + "One might be thankful that one need not stray + On such a night as this--'tis just the night + When the Wild Huntsman (as the people say), + With all his hounds is scouring heaven's height, + And you may see him if, as now, the moon be bright." + + +V + + "It is an old and foolish tale. Be still, + For now, I think, your father's step I hear, + Though not the tune he whistles down the hill. + He comes--is at the door. Why, goodman, dear, + You're out of breath! Bad news you bring, I fear." + "Bad news" (the goodman smiles, with half a frown), + "But not for us; and so take heart of cheer. + I own I'm out of breath--but sit ye down + And hear the strangest thing e'er happened in this town." + + + VI + + The children gather at their father's knees + And, wonder-eyed, the coming story wait-- + The story strange, the story sure to please. + The black cat, who absorbed their cares but late, + Is left to hold his solitary state. + "'Twas thus," the father said, "as I came home, + I reached the ruined castle's postern gate + Just at the time the bats begin to roam + And dart with heedless wings about the ivied gloam; + + +VII + + "When, on my left, along the crumbling wall, + Sharp-graved against the pallid afterglow, + I saw a funeral train, with sweeping pall, + And mournful bearers in a double row. + I rubbed my eyes, I looked again, and lo! + No human forms composed that funeral train!" + (The black cat's eyes of gold-stone glitter so! + He rises from the spot where he hath lain + And listens well, as one who does not list in vain.) + + +VIII + + "Folk say the Schloss was ever haunted ground; + But tell us, father, what those mourners were." + The father answered, smiling as he frowned: + "Now, if 'twere told by some strange traveller, + I'd say, 'Too much you tax our faith, good sir.' + But truth was ever priceless unto me. + Those mourners, clad in somber coats of fur, + _Were cats--no more, nor less_! This I did see, + And that the dead grimalkin was of high degree." + + +IX + + Up, up the chimney go the sparks apace; + Up, up, to vanish in the gusty sky. + The black cat--look! he leaves his wonted place, + And hark! he speaks: "_Then, king of cats am I!_" + And with this first and last word for good-by, + Up, up the chimney he hath vanished quite. + "Our dear, our good Black Prince!" the children cry; + "We always thought he should be king by right, + But we shall miss him sadly, both by day and night." + + +X + + The legend saith (I know no more than you, + Reader of fairy lore with fancy fraught), + That humble hearth nor evil fortune knew, + Nor discontent. Long time the children sought + For tidings of the lost; yet heard they naught; + But sometimes, of a winter eventide, + When all was bright within, the children thought + That, when they called up through the chimney wide, + Thence, with a gentle purr, their olden friend replied. + + + + +WAIFS + + + Wept the Child that no one knew, + Wandering on, without a clew; + Wept so softly none did stay; + So, farther yet, he went astray. + + Cried the Lamb that missed the fold, + Trembling more from fear than cold-- + "I am lost, and thou art lost-- + Both upon the wide world tossed! + Why not wander on together, + Through the bright or cloudy weather?" + + Then the Child that no one knew + Looked through eyes that shone like dew. + Laughed, and wept, "Lost as I am, + Come with me, thou poor lost Lamb!" + Moaned the youngling wood-dove left + By the flock, of flight bereft, + "Thou art lost, and we are lost-- + All upon the wide world tossed! + Why not wander on together, + Through the bright or cloudy weather?" + + Then the Child that no one knew + Closer to the nestling drew, + Hand beneath, and hand above, + Thus he held the quivering Dove. + Still they wander on together, + Through the bright or cloudy weather,-- + Spotless Lamb and Dove and Child, + Comrades in the lonesome wild; + Child and Lamb and nestling Dove,-- + Truth and Innocence and Love! + Blest their hearth, and blest their field, + Who to these a shelter yield. + + + + +FROST-FLOWERS OF THE PAVEMENT + + + I sighed for flowers, in wintry hours + When gardens were a loveless waste; + Mine eye fell on the pavement stone, + There flowers and flowers and flowers were traced. + + For me alone, the pavement stone, + That garden pleasance did prepare; + Or else, would others stop to see + What flowers and flowers and flowers bloom there! + + + + +STARS OF THE SNOW + + + The stars are falling, are falling, + By stream-side and meadow and wood; + They silence the whispering leaves; + And swiftly and softly they brood + The robin's lone nest in the eaves. + + The stars are falling, are falling, + Yet Night has lost never a one, + Of all that are gathered below; + To-morrow they'll melt in the sun-- + For these are the stars of the snow. + + The stars are falling, are falling-- + Look! On your sleeve is a star! + Six-pointed and perfect its form, + Six-pointed its comrades are,-- + All, gems of this wonder-storm! + + + + +JUNE IN THE SKY + + + Slow through the light and silent air, + Up climbs the smoke on its spiral stair-- + The visible flight of some mortal's prayer; + The trees are in bloom with the flowers of frost, + But never a feathery leaf is lost; + + The spring, descending, is caught and bound + Ere its silver feet can touch the ground; + So still is the air that lies, this morn, + Over the snow-cold fields forlorn, + 'Tis as though Italy's heaven smiled + In the face of some bleak Norwegian wild; + And the heart in me sings--I know not why-- + 'Tis winter on earth, but June in the sky! + + June in the sky! Ah, now I can see + The souls of roses about to be, + In gardens of heaven beckoning me, + Roses red-lipped, and roses pale, + Fanned by the tremulous ether gale! + Some of them climbing a window-ledge, + Some of them peering from wayside hedge, + As yonder, adrift on the aery stream, + Love drives his plumed and filleted team; + The Angel of Summer aloft I see, + And the souls of roses about to be! + And the heart in me sings--the heart knows why-- + 'Tis winter on earth, but June in the sky. + + + + +MOTHER EARTH + + + O mother, tuck the children in, + And draw the curtains round their heads; + And mother, when the storms begin, + Let storms forbear those cradle beds. + + And if the sleepers wake too soon, + Say, "Children, 'tis too early yet!" + And hush them with a sleepy tune, + And closer draw the coverlet. + + O Mother Earth, be good to all + The little sleepers in thy care; + And when 'tis time to wake them, call + A beam of sun, a breath of air! + + + + +THE RAIN RAINS EVERY DAY + + + Said the robin to his mate + In the dripping orchard tree: + "Our dear nest will have to wait + Till the blue sky we can see. + Birds can neither work nor play, + For the rain rains every day, + And the rain rains all the day!" + + Said the violet to the leaf: + "I can scarcely ope my eye; + So, for fear I'll come to grief, + Close along the earth I lie. + All we flowers for sunshine pray, + But the rain rains every day, + And the rain rains all the day!" + + And the children, far and wide, + They, too, wished away the rain; + All their sports were spoiled outside + By the "black glove" at the pane. + + Very dull indoors to stay + While "the rain rains every day, + And the rain rains all the day!" + + Up and down the murmurs run, + Shared by child and bird and flower. + Suddenly the golden sun + Dazzled through a clearing shower. + Then they all forgot to say + That "the rain rains every day, + And the rain rains all the day!" + + + + +THE GOOD BY + + + When the Little Girl said Good by, + At the turn of the road, on the hill, + Was there a tear in her eye? + And why did she keep so still? + + When the Little Girl said Good by, + She never looked back at all! + Was there a tear in her eye? + I thought I could hear it fall! + + And then were the flowers more sweet, + And the grass breathed a long, low sigh-- + I know--for I heard my heart beat-- + There _was_ a tear in her eye! + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Children of Christmas and Others, by +Edith M. Thomas + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40598 *** |